


Fold

by Tellah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Gen, Suicide, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:23:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tellah/pseuds/Tellah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone else is dead, they’re just waiting for Spades to make it official, to light the funeral pyre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fold

**Author's Note:**

> I sort of struggled on whether to tag this as Snowman/Spades Slick... but it's not REALLY about them being in a relationship, so I decided not to.

It ends as it was always meant to end- just two figures on top of a roof. Whatever building it is isn’t important, the fact that the they’re on the moon isn’t important and even the fact that the world the moon is orbiting around is nothing but a planetary crypt isn’t really important. What’s important is that they’re there, Snowman and Spades Slick, and it’s nearing the time for the universe to end. Everyone else is dead, they’re just waiting for Spades to make it official, to light the funeral pyre.

She stands there as patient and timeless as a statue, admittedly though, a statue that will probably start making insinuations about his manliness if he doesn’t hurry the fuck up and off her. Or maybe she won’t- there really isn’t much more to say between the two of them after so long. Every insult has already been repeated to the point where they don’t even mean anything much anymore, and she was never one to repeat them anyway. All that’s left is a clipped, “What are you waiting for? Draw, Spades.”

The gun comes up without him really thinking about it, if slowly. It’s a huge fucking gun and he’s had the shit kicked out of him today, so his arm lags a little. It’s the type of gun that even an amateur like him could hit a target with, especially if said target has no intention of dodging. Much as he’d like to bluster otherwise, a gun really isn’t his sort of weapon. Too impersonal, too many mechanical fiddly bits between the trigger man and the… person who needs to get shot? Shit, however one would go about phrasing that- the point is that he prefers killing close-quarters and messy and personal. If there’s anything he’s learned over the sweeps is that there’s always an almost infinite number of reasons to make any bastard out there worth stabbing and worth feeling personal about it.

A thought crosses his mind as he’s aiming the gun at her, one of a jumbled, tangled mess of his eternal internal monologue mixed in amongst the hatred and the half-formed badass lines and the cravings for small dog-shaped candies- ‘What was the fucking point of all this? If I wanted to do exactly what she told me to do, why’d I ever plot to overthrow her back on Derse?’

The thought becomes paramount in his mind, and it’s enough to make him clench his teeth ever harder. It’s not exactly easy to flip the gun around in his hand, but he does it anyway, awkward grip be damned. Guns never really were his weapon after all, but this was a gun big enough not to miss even in the hands of an amateur, especially if the target wanted to be shot.  
Especially if it was at point-blank range. 

He tells himself this isn’t a surrender, repeats it over and over in his head like a mantra. It’s death either way, just a matter of who goes out first. This ain’t a surrender, it’s a final, last great ‘Fuck You’ to end the grand ballad of ‘Fuck You’s that define his relationship with Snowman, if you can even call it that.  
It’s not a surrender, it’s just making her clean up her own fucking mess for once instead of continually slogging through her bullshit.

He pulls the trigger, but he doesn’t watch it. Doesn’t watch the flashing orb flying with a dreamlike slowness in its pointed trajectory. Instead he watches her face, watches the impassive mask crack just slightly, parting to show a dull sort of confusion blossoming over her face-  
‘You can’t fire me, I QUIT- no, wait, fuck, I was the one doing the firing. Shit. Whatever, not saying anything works just as well,’ the thoughts rattle around in his head almost as if to avoid thinking about the inevitable.  
He occupies the rest of his mind by savoring the puzzlement on her face for the few micro-seconds it takes before the bullet destroys his head- his only regret being a the faint flitter of ‘I really wish I coulda went out with a one-liner.’ The gun was constructed for the purpose of parting carapace and flesh and organs from a distance, so his head was hardly a greater target, and he’s dead before he even really notices any pain. 

His body takes a moment to catch up, it remains standing due to raw bred-in-bone stubbornness before it finally collapses into a heap, blood and little bits of what used to be his head fountaining out in a gruesome puddle. Snowman is silent in the great aftermath of the gunshot, collecting herself before she paces over. She pulls out her lance and runs it through the twitching corpse again and again, dispassionate- a rejoinder to an insult that she’s too late to answer. It’s pointless and petty, but there’s no one left to judge her.

What now? What now, indeed?

She’ll smoke another cigarette and clean his blood of her shoes and off her lance. Maybe she’ll watch the stars a while. …then there will be another rooftop where she’ll meet another him and maybe a different thought will flit across his mind and he’ll do what he’s supposed to. There are countless possibilities after all- and she has all the time in the world.


End file.
